Promises
by gomababe
Summary: The Valentine's fic. How much does a promise really mean to someone in the middle of a war? rated for some strong language


A/N: Valentine's fic time. I'm obviously working on The Bonds that Bind and another short story for my AU drabbles, but the day of love comes first I'm afraid. Another one of Burn's poems here; 'O Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast' does have two stanzas but only the first one fits for this fic. Lovely poem though. Angst galore ahead, just a warning.

_O wert thou in the cauld blast,  
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,  
My plaidie to the aingry airt,  
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee.  
Or did misfortune's bitter storms  
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,  
The bield* should be my bosom,  
To share it a', to share it a'_.

"_Whit dae ye mean retreat?" Scotland yelled at the blonde, who was ordering his men to continue to hold the line. France quickly glanced to the British nation,_

"_Exactly what I said," he snapped back, "We can 'old the German troops back long enough..." he was quickly cut off by Scotland grabbing his jacket,_

"_Ye fuckin' idiot. We're mean' tae be coverin' your arses!" he yelled, "or did ye forget that part?"France's glare softened a little,_

"_Mon amour, please listen to me." He said, "It is over, Germany's troops 'ave already taken Paris and they are steadily marching 'ere." He retorted, "It is too late, you need to retreat with your brothers before Germany takes you too." He pleaded. Scotland was about to reply when a shell exploded nearby, causing the two nations to duck. France pushed Scotland away, "Go now!" he ordered, picking up his gun again. Scotland hesitated for a moment before pulling France into a kiss,_

"_We'll come back fer ye! I promise!" he called as he picked up his own gun and ran off towards the boats that were now leaving the beach, ordering the last of his men to do the same. France watched his ally and lover leave with a heavy sigh,_

"_Je t'aime L'Ecosse. Good luck." He muttered before turning to face the German troops once again, ordering the few French troops that were left to continue fighting, down to the last man._

...

It had been four long, excruciating years, but finally UK forces stood once again on the beaches of northern France. Scotland glared at the German forces that were left amongst the dead, dying and wounded, then up at the nation who had come to try to stop them,

"Whaur is he?" he demanded. The albino man standing opposite him merely chuckled, causing Scotland to grit his teeth and raise his rifle to his shoulder, "What Is He?" he asked more forcefully. Prussia smirked,

"I have no idea who you're even talking about." He replied silkily. Scotland rested his finger on the trigger,

"I'm only gonnae ask ye one last time ye German bastard. Whaur is France?" he growled dangerously. Prussia laughed,

"Well he's not here is he?" he retorted, ignoring the fact that the Scottish man could quite easily kill him at this distance. Instead the albino nation walked straight up to him and pushed the rifle to the side, "And watch where you point that thing, you could seriously hurt someone with it." That did it, Scotland dropped the rifle and punched the German nation. He was about to deliver another one when someone stopped him, grabbing onto his arm and pulling it back,

"Angus, that's enough!" England's voice snapped, "We'll go looking for France later!" Scotland glared at his youngest brother,

"Like bloody hell I'm waiting ony longer! I've waited fer four fuckin' years!" he spat. Prussia looked on in amusement,

"If you want to go looking for Frankreich now, be my guest." He said as he started to walk off, "But good luck if you do." He called with a wave. Scotland stiffened, what did the other nation mean by that exactly? Scotland's hesitation allowed England to drag his brother back to base camp,

"Prussia's just trying to 'psyche you out' as America would put it." He told his brother, "We can start the search once we start the march inland." He glanced at his brother warily, "Besides, resistance is exactly what France does best right?" he assured the Celtic nation with a pat on the arm. Scotland nodded slowly,

"Aye... aye, ye're right." He replied, shaking his head to clear it, "We've still got the French resistance forces on oor side, so there's no way Francis himself will hae forgotten who he is." England smiled,

"Jolly good. Now let's get some tea on the brew, I could really use a cuppa after this morning." Scotland mirrored the smile,

"Always wi' the tea, eh? I'll settle fer a guid stiff drink if ye dinnae mind." He retorted, earning him a playful slap on the arm before England lopped an arm over his brother's shoulder, the two of them singing some old folk song heartily as they arrived back in base camp for the day.

...

Scotland froze as the other nation levelled the rifle at him. This wasn't happening; surely the other nation had just been startled by his entrance and would recognise who he was in a moment or two? He swallowed thickly,

"F...France? C'mon on now, it's only me." He said, trying to keep his voice steady as the blonde nation glared at him,

"Wer sind Sie? Was tun Sie hier?" he snapped, his accent wavering somewhere between German and French. Scotland's heart stopped. France didn't even know who he was? His best friend and lover for over 700 years didn't even recognise him? The Celtic nation back up slightly, eyes trained on the rifle pointed at him, raising his arms defensively. He didn't bother to stop the waver in his voice this time,

"France...it's me... Scotland..." he tried, his voice cracking slightly, "Ne vous rappelez-vous pas?" France stopped his advance on the intruding nation, brow furrowing in concentration,

"Je ne fais pas. Que faites-vous ici?" he asked suspiciously. Scotland willed himself not to break down there and then,

"Je suis ici pour vous aider. Nous sommes des allies." He replied, starting to get desperate for some sort of recognition, any at all. France glared at the Scotsman and put his finger on the trigger,

"Je n'ai aucun allié." He replied simply, firing the rifle. Scotland's mind went blank, not registering someone yelling and pushing him to the ground, nor the fighting that followed as he was swiftly lead away. All he could think of was France's reply, 'I have no allies.'

...

Canada rushed into the corridor, his mind racing at about a million miles an hour. France had been found? Scotland was hurt by his hand? None of it made any sense to the young British Territory. He finally spotted England talking to a doctor of some sort, who was shaking his head. England growled and quickly resisted the urge to hit something, instead thanking the doctor and letting the man on his way. He looked up as someone called his name,

"Oh, Canada. I'm sorry lad, I didn't see you coming." He sighed running a hand through his already messed up hair. Canada stopped and fidgeted with the lapel of his jacket,

"Is... is uncle Scotland going to be ok?" he asked quietly, wishing that he could have brought his bear along with him. England sent the Dominion a sad smile,

"Yes he's fine... physically speaking at least." He replied, "Though I'm not so sure about his mental well-being." He admitted. He looked up at Canada sharply, "You heard what happened?" he asked. Canada nodded,

"Yes, I did. I... I can't believe that Papa would..." he trailed off. England sighed heavily,

"It's alright lad, no doubt it's just a side effect of being occupied by German forces for so long." He said, "The moment we kick those idiots out of here France will be back to himself in no time." Canada nodded, albeit rather dubiously,

"So, how is uncle Scotland holding up?" he asked.

...

Scotland gripped at the bedsheets, his knuckles white. The moment he was let out of here he was going to hunt down those German bastards and kill them both in the most painful way imaginable. His thoughts were interrupted by someone laying a hand on top of his. He looked up somewhat blankly into the concerned face of his nephew. Canada sighed,

"Uncle Scotland, I came as soon as I heard what happened." He said quietly. The red haired nation looked back down at his sheets, causing the Dominion to frown in worry, "are you alright?" he asked. Scotland shook his head slowly,

"No laddie, I'm no'. He admitted, "Fer the firs' time in over three hunner years I've went an' failed those I care aboot." He wrapped the sheet around his hand. Canada bit his lip a little,

"You haven't failed anyone Uncle Scotland, papa just..." he was cut off by a bitter laugh from the older nation,

"I havenae failed onyone?" he asked, his voice cracking, "I promised I'd be back fer him, promised that we would free him an' his people." Scotland didn't bother to choke back the sob that escaped him as his guilt began to eat at him, "I wen' and broke it Canada, he... he didnae even recognise me... I waited too long..." Canada had never seen his uncle cry. He doubted if anyone ever had. The Dominion sighed heavily as he pulled his uncle into a hug, his own tears threatening to fall from his face,

"It's alright uncle, we'll get papa back." He soothed, "We'll get him back if it's the last thing we do in this damned war."

...

_A month later_

Scotland wavered at the door to the private room. The last time he had seen France, the other had tried to kill him. England had insisted that France was definitely himself again and that he had been asking for the Celtic nation, but Scotland could not stop the doubt gnawing at the bottom of his stomach. What if France was indeed himself again, but could not remember the relationship the two had shared for so many centuries. The war had taken its toll on all of them and most nations under as much stress as France had been buried memories of the years before so far down that they could never reach them again as a coping mechanism. Scotland gripped the handle tightly, took a steadying breath and knocked on the door,

"Entré." A wearied, yet familiar voice called out. Scotland opened the door hesitantly, closing it behind him before he even looked at his love. France squinted a little at him, looking confused. Scotland's breath caught in his throat. No. Surely he still hadn't forgotten? He licked his lips nervously,

"France?" he called quietly, his voice wavering dangerously. Suddenly it seemed like a lightbulb had been switched on inside France's head,

"L'Ecosse, vous êtes venu!" he exclaimed happily. Scotland's relief was palpable as he rushed straight over to the bed,

"Vous rappelez, remerciez un dieu." He cried as he collapsed next to the bed and hugged France tightly, the tears streaming from his eyes already. France went wide eyed at the reaction, not too sure how to react to it,

"Naturellement je me rappelle vous, mon amour." He replied, utterly confused. Scotland simply buried his head further into France's shoulder,

"Promettez que vous n'oublierez pas." France sighed and patted Scotland awkwardly,

"Je promets." He replied. That finally seemed to calm the Scotsman down as he lifted his head off the French man's shoulder,

"S..sorry," he sniffled, wiping at his eyes furiously, "Y'know, fer... fer takin' so long." He said. France chuckled weakly,

"That was not your fault, mon cher." He cooed in assurance, "Germany 'ad us all in the corner, non?" he said, brushing Scotland's hair out of his face. Scotland sighed as he closed his eyes and relaxed,

"Maybe, but I promised I'd be back fer ye." He replied quietly. France took Scotland's hand,

"And 'ere you are." He stated, "So what if it took a little longer than expected? You still came back, oui?" Scotland smiled sadly as he placed his free hand on top of France's,

"Aye... I guess so." He replied softly, looking back up at France's face. There was the man he had fallen in love with so many centuries ago. The man he'd always sworn to protect and always would, whether their alliance was official or not. In fact, he mused, he had just found himself falling in love all over again,

"Je t'aime Francis." He muttered, leaning his head against France's. France smiled as he replied,

"Je t'aime aussi Angus."


End file.
